


Groan

by Cardinal_Sin (HU_shipper)



Series: Powerwolf Prompt Fics [2]
Category: Powerwolf (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Werewolves, literally just angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 15:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19871929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HU_shipper/pseuds/Cardinal_Sin
Summary: It always hurts to lose the one we love the most. Especially if there's no time to prepare for it.





	Groan

Falk had never considered himself a good sleeper. He needed several hours every night to prepare, and the five or six hours he managed to sleep were about as refreshing as a cup of decaf. But once he managed to fall asleep, he almost never woke up. To anything.

Except that his stupid fucking boyfriend kept kicking him. Falk tried to ignore it, to scoot a little backwards so they weren't spooning anymore, hoping that would get him out of the range of his legs, but there was no use. Matthew kept tossing and turning, and soon his flailing became so out of control that Falk realized that something was wrong and he should probably do something.

Considering Matthew's past and his aversion to restraints of any kind (disappointed wink), Falk knew better than to hold him down by the hands. Instead, he gently shook Matthew by his shoulders, lightly pushing him down on his back.

Matthew stilled, his limbs falling back down on the bed in useless heaps of bone and meat. Falk made gentle, shushing sounds at him until he was finally lying peacefully. Relieved at the quick resolution, Falk lied back, gathering the smaller man into his arms again. Matthew, still asleep, snuggled into his embrace.

Falk laid his arm across Matthew's middle, pulling him a little closer and nestling his face into the auburn mess of curls. He was almost ready to try and fall back asleep - hopefully he could get in at least an hour more - when Matthew let out a pained groan, curling in on himself and shaking off Falk's arm.

Alarmed, Falk sat up again, clicking on the small bedside lamp to see better. His lover's face was pale, almost green, with drops of sweat gathering along his hairline and running down his nose. It seemed that his entire body had cramped, stuck in that terribly vulnerable foetal position, and as Falk put a little distance between them, he began to tremble with the loss of heat.

Falk put his hand to the other man's forehead, then cheeks, panic filling his mind like ice water. Matthew had a fever. That wasn't possible, that was not supposed to happen. Matthew was a werewolf, for fuck's sake, the best part of that was _not getting sick_!

"Matthew, dear, wake up," Falk called out lightly, stroking down the smaller man's back. Matthew's eyes fluttered open, his gaze unfocused, his pupils dilated. His eyes were glazed over with that shine that only the sick and dying possessed, the lamp's warm light reflecting in them twice as bright, and almost mocking.

"Whassit?" Matthew slurred, face scrunching up at the light. He let out an honest-to god whimper and tried to burrow himself back into the cocoon of blankets and Falks, but the organist stopped him.

"You have a fever, darling. How is that possible?"

Matthew was a lot more awake, pushing himself up in a half-sitting position, one hand supporting his weight, the other still clutching his middle.

"Fuck, a fever? Already?"

Falk paled.

"What do you mean, already?" When Matthew didn't answer, Falk took him by the shoulders again and shook him. Hard.

"Stay awake, Matthew. What did you mean when you said already?"

The werewolf shook his head, groaning immediately after and clenching his jaw in pain. Falk could see that he was debating something, that there was something important that Matthew wasn't telling him.

Only Matthew's shallow breathing broke the heavy silence that descended upon them. Falk counted the seconds, silently cursing himself for having been born as a human, a faulty gear in a well-oiled machine. Were he a werewolf, he could have smelled, felt this sooner, so now Matthew wouldn't hold his entire world in the palm of his hands.

Because Matthew was Falk's world. It was a rather cheesy sentiment, but it was true. And if this fever was a big thing - and of course it was, werewolves don't get sick - then he would come face to face with the possibility of losing it all.

"Fine," Matthew breathed out, nearly inaudible. "I'm... Dearest, do I have to do this?"

Falk's eyebrows jumped up to the middle of his forehead.

"Of course you have to do this! You could be dying for all I know, and you don't want to tell me what the fuck is going on?"

"I am." Matthew was quiet, almost ashamed. "Dying, that is. Been for a week now, but it's almost over at this point."

"I can't believe you still won't tell me- wait what?"

Matthew pulled up the old t-shirt he slept in to his chest. On the right side of his ribcage, just above the last ribs, there was a clear gunshot wound, the skin around it blackish purple, criss-cross lines of infected veins painting a macabre pattern around it. Blood was oozing from the wound, but it was thicker than blood and almost black.

"Silver bullet. Someone shot me when I was wandering through the alleys. Won't heal."

Falk's jaw dropped open. He felt blood rush from his head, suddenly feeling dizzy. Whether from disbelief or the grim realization of what that meant, he didn't know.

"What were you doing around those alleys in the first place, dummy? You shouldn't shift unless we're outside the city."

"I don't even know. It probably seemed like a good idea. I'm sorry."

Matthew looked so damn broken in that moment, and Falk was completely aware that that was only because he saw the pain on Falk's face. Matthew had always been like that, in some moments almost looking like he was craving death. To see him face it as reality with the same attitude was no surprise for Falk.

"How long do you have?" Falk breathed out, reaching out his hand to touch Matthew but pulling it back the last second, not wanting to cause the werewolf any more pain.

"The fever is the very last stage, so from the start of that it's only a few hours. At this point, I'd give it thirty minutes."

His voice was deadpan, devoid of emotion. Falk felt like screaming. The love of his life, his mate, his friend, was half an hour away from dying and he still couldn't look like he cared one bit.

Matthew reached out a trembling hand; thumb wiping away the tears Falk hadn't realized had rolled down his cheeks. His lover's warm hand cupped his cheek, the touch grounding him. The irony was strong in the scene, Matthew being the one dying and still providing comfort for him...

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," Matthew murmured, voice breaking on the 'sorry'. "I didn't want to hurt you."

"This is hurting me more," Falk whispered back, screwing his eyes shut in pain, trying to keep his tears at bay. He reached up and wrapped his hand around Matthew's that was still on his cheek, bringing it down and peppering it with kisses. He brushed his lips over the hardened knuckles, the calloused fingertips, finally pressing his mouth hard onto the back of Matthew's hand.

"You're an idiot," he muttered against the pale skin, "but I love you. I always will."

Matthew was silent. Falk glanced up, scared of what he might see, but Matthew was still there, sitting hunched over, t-shirt still riding up a little, and Falk couldn't take his eyes off him as his face crumpled, lips trembling as tears started to roll down his cheeks.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," he kept whispering, his breaths breaking off into tiny hiccups.

Falk let him cry; let him apologize for everything. There was no point in trying to placate him anymore. As Matthew's shivers got worse again, Falk gently turned him around so that the smaller man was nestled between his legs, his back leaning against Falk's chest. Matthew hummed a little, his hand still holding tightly onto Falk's.

They stayed like that, Falk slowly rocking both of them from side to side. Matthew's tears slowly dissipated, his breathing calmer. Falk hummed some random melody into his ear, desperate to make his lover as comfortable as possible.

When Matthew's grip on his hand suddenly turned bone-crushing, Falk knew it was time. He wrapped both his hands around Matthew's middle, minding the wound, and buried his face in the crook of the man's neck.

"Sweetheart?" Matthew gasped out, his body seizing up. Falk fought back his tears, needing to be strong in that moment, at least to ease Matthew's conscience.

"Hmm?" He hummed into the tender skin of Matthew's neck. The smaller man didn't answer for a few beats, only his rasping breath proving that he was still alive.

"I love you."

Falk held his breath, expecting something else, anything else, really. It took him a few moments to notice.

Matthew wasn't breathing anymore.

Falk buried his face in his lover's hair, silently screaming, tears streaming down his face freely now. He rocked themselves back and forth, the broken sounds escaping his mouth less human than he had ever been.

He stayed there for hours, not able to pull away, even though he was aware of how sick hugging a corpse was. Finally he steeled himself, pulling away and letting Matthew's body sag against him a little more. Falk pressed a last kiss to the crown of Matthew's head, breathing in his scent for the last time.

"I love you too."


End file.
